(At the Feet of) Poor Atlas
by The Laughing Phoenix
Summary: I'm building a body... A brief look at four transformations from Marvel's Cinematic Universe.


(At the Feet of) Poor Atlas

 _I'm building a body…_

A brief look at four transformations across Marvel's Cinematic Universe.

 **The Laughing Phoenix** does not own any Marvel properties and makes no money from this.

* * *

 **Balsam and Ash**

His first hour out of the casket was spent in a high-speed chase and subsequent, tumultuous, debrief, so it was a little while before Steve could really catalogue the changes to his new body. When he finally did, sitting quietly on a chair, it nearly overwhelmed him. Nothing hurt. The accustomed ache in his chest and tightness in his lungs was gone, and even though by rights he should have had fantastic bruises from hitting the car and scraped (broken) knuckles from breaking into the submarine, nothing so much as twinged.

It was amazing, of course, but it was also a little terrifying. For the first time in his _life_ Steve could run and run for as long as he wanted without more than a faint heat developing in his limbs. The expected flare of fire in his joints and pinching in his lungs simply never materialized. Falls and blows barely left marks, when he'd once, as Bucky put it, bruised like a peach.

He had barely a week to get used to it, and then he was so busy getting used to the awkwardness of being on stage that it sort of became unimportant by comparison. And then he was chasing after the 107th and Bucky was looking up at him from that table.

Buck had yelled, after, once they were all back at camp and he'd had the chance to pull Steve away from the grateful POWs and awed enlisted men and blustering officers, get something resembling privacy. _What the hell were you thinking Rogers_ and _it could have killed you,_ and _I thought you weren't going to do anything stupid until I got back_. Steve ducked his head, mumbled something about _you took the stupid with you,_ and Buck stared for one more long moment, then shook his head and punched Steve in the arm. _You damn idiot, what'm I gonna do with you?_

Maybe Steve got cocky. Maybe he got careless, overconfident in a body that for once did whatever he asked it to, that he could push past the limits of the rest of the Commandos, miles past the limits of his old body. Whatever it was, the day came he wasn't fast enough, wasn't strong enough, couldn't reach far enough, and Bucky…

Well.

It was war, people died. Buck had gone out fighting.

(Didn't mean a damn thing, when Steve had fetched up hard against his limits and Buck had paid for it again. Again, like it was 1939 and Steve had gotten so sick they thought he'd die, or in '41 when the 'flu had him down and out for weeks and Buck was trying to cover both their rents.)

Later...later, when he woke up in a fake hospital room, inside a sci-fi story straight out of Wells or Clarke, Steve wondered if he was paying for his relatively easy adjustment to his new body back in '42. He kept breaking things, like the proverbial bull in the china shop, snapping them in his hands or denting them with his elbows. Everything was just so flimsy, and wasn't that a change of pace from being the flimsy one.

 **No God Attached**

For the longest time, Bruce didn't really know what the Other Guy looked like. The pictures in the paper after… after the first incident were grainy and blurry, portraits of power and size and implacable rage. A monster or force of nature, not a person. Subsequent incidents reinforced the concept, so when he first got a look at the Hulk's face, grimacing in concentration, he had to stop and stare for a minute.

He looked oddly human. More human than Bruce expected, and wasn't that an awkward realization. There might have been something philosophical in there, somewhere, something clever or profound about the distance between "human" and "beast" and how far humanity had _really_ come from its animal roots, anyway.

Bruce tried not to think about it. He'd never been a philosopher. Keeping busy, doing good, worthwhile work where he could, that was better. He had skills, he could use them to help people, and all was well.

Funnily enough, despite his attempt to relegate them to the back of his mind, the thoughts came creeping back. _Monster behind the man_ and _trying to make up for those that died because of the Other Guy_ and there was something about karma in that idea that Bruce didn't want to look at too closely.

There was MAN and there was MONSTER and never the twain shall meet. Or something.

It took Bruce all of five minutes to admit to himself that yeah, that was a stupid idea. He'd seen plenty of monsters wearing beautiful human faces, and some of the bravest, kindest, gentlest people he met in his time caring for the dispossessed were technically disfigured, victims of illness or malnutrition or congenital bad luck or (in a few cases, and those a few too many) of acid. Sometimes, usually, it was some variation of all of the above.

He saw a lot, in those months, more than he'd seen in the years of academia that led up to his… incident? Accident? Accident was probably a better word. Unspeakable horror and incredible kindness, living cheek by jowl often as not.

Those he could help, he did, but there were always those he couldn't, and sometimes the only thing that kept him from losing control and turning sheer destruction loose on the vulnerable was the knowledge that breaking things wouldn't help either.

 **Blueprints in Braille**

The thing about trying to work on something embedded in your chest is, well, it's awkward, okay? No matter how far you strain your neck, you can't quite see all the stuff you need to.

Most of the work on the Arc Reactor can be done out of Tony's body, on the bench - he's typically got a spare to hand, he learned that lesson early, so if he has to he can yank the reactor he's using out, pop the spare in, and get to work. The rest of it… well, he's rigged up a couple of mirrors once or twice, and if it's necessary there's always Pepper (and Bruce, although Pepper's hands are actually small enough to get into the cavity, Bruce's not so much). But other than that, it's done by touch.

It's probably better that way anyways, if he's being honest. The first time he had to reach into the cavity the utter strangeness of watching his fingers disappear inside his chest left him gagging and choking, the pain of his ribs trying to move with and around the housing playing counterpoint to the burn of acid in his throat. Time and necessity got him used to it, but the visual never really gets less uncanny.

 **Our Design has Failed**

 _28 March, 1945_

 _...patient presented with multiple wounds, the most significant of which is the loss of the left arm, which appears to have been severed above the elbow. Surgery was performed to remove irreparably damaged tissue and close the wound. At this time the bleeding has been stopped and the injury is bandaged - patient is receiving antibiotics, although it remains to be seen if further surgery will be required to remove necrotic tissue._

 _Other injuries include cracked and broken ribs, multiple hematomas, blood loss, and significant frostbite and hypothermia, although the latter likely saved the patient's life. There is a high probability of concussion - since the patient was anaesthetized for surgery on the arm it is as yet impossible to determine the severity..._

25 October, 1949

Subject remains sluggish 24 hours after transition from cryogenic chamber to waking. Mental and physical agility increased from 12 hours ago, but still far behind optimal parameters. Agent Conrad recommends a dose of amphetamines - holds promise, but dose will require titering given subject's metabolism. Consider mixed amphetamine/methamphetamine cocktail.

3 May, 1951

Prosthetic interface deemed insufficiently sensitive - while Subject is capable of withstanding pressures and moving large masses, attempts at more delicate tasks failed miserably. (cf footage 2/5/51 - egg, teacup, map.) Reactions in mechanical limb lag significantly behind those of the natural limb.

Interface prototype 0973 considered optimal by surgical and robotics teams. Prior tests on trial subjects showed superior reaction time and dexterity. Installation will require removal of lower three inches of remaining humerus and entirety of remaining brachialis, along with significant reductions to biceps and triceps brachii to expose the radial nerve for integration into the prosthetic. Bone to be ablated to encourage integration...

6 November, 1959

...Calibration of Subject proceeds slowly - the neural map is at best incomplete and it is best to proceed slowly so as to ensure pertinent skills are not lost and to avoid triggering attack behaviors...

7 January, 1965

Asset retrieved in poor condition - prosthetic will require significant work before returning to the field. Mental conditioning has begun to fragment, leaving Asset unaware of location or handlers. Deemed unadvisable to transport via usual channels, similarly cannot return to cryo until prosthetic is repaired and conditioning reinforced...

* * *

 _I'm building a body from balsam and ash,_

 _I'm building a body with no God attached,_

 _I'm building a body from blueprints in braille,_

 _I'm building a body where our design has failed._

 _There's a book full of plans at the feet of poor Atlas_

 _Titled "For Man", but the architect only drew blanks,_

 _And there's nowhere to go but_

 _Go back, go back, go back, go back._

-Poor Atlas, Dessa


End file.
